Ten Days in Puglia, Part 1: Gargano

It was a bit of a serendipitous babymoon.  A soon-to-expire voucher for a free rental of a HomeAway UK property via this Grantourismo travel blogging contest and my in-laws volunteering without prompting to take the kids for a while was the equivalent of the stars aligning to offer us what will most likely be our last vacation as two before the impending arrival of baby number three for the foreseeable future. I mean, maybe we will be able to do this again when a) baby three is weened b) the grandparents feel up to the challenge of taking on three at once and c) at least one child is old enough to cook dinner, do the laundry and perform CPR, just in case. Until then, we will revel in the memories of a gorgeous ten day get away to Puglia, otherwise known as "the heel of the boot".

We left the kids with tears in our eyes on the beach with their grandparents not far from Ferrara. An hour later, the tears were dry and we had the stereo cranked, the windows down and we were free on the open highway, just me, my man and one baby minus 14 weeks. First stop: the gorgeous Gargano Promontory and the slippery-stoned, peninsula-topped, jaw-dropping view offering town of Peschici.

There were delicious discoveries like little almond paste cookies that Ingo took one bite of and declared too rich, and a sort of Puglian scone, the Pane del Pescatore, a dense bun with sweet raisins and salty almonds that filled us up for the rest of the day. There were also slices of hot dog and french fry foccaccia which we passed on this time around.

After an amazing meal at Porta di Basso where we sat at a table literally ON a CLIFF, I mean one step over the guard rail and it would have been 100 meters straight down into the sea, we headed out the next day to trace the promontory. Cruising by the trabucci, these old fishing nets that reminded me of the ones in Cochin, where you can sit and eat fish from the sea, into the pan and onto your plate.

Stopping over the lunch hour in sweet little Vieste, we continued tracing the coast, stopping occassionally to oggle the view, like this:

And periodically stopping to hike down to some little spot of beach like this:

And then on to the Baia delle Zagare, a little bay and incredible hotel that Ingo had been hearing about from his parents since childhood when they would dump him and his brother at his grandmother's and head down south for a few weeks on their own (sound familiar?). They would occasionally stay at this hotel, a gorgeous place perched up on a cliff with an elevator built into the rock to take guests down to this secluded little expanse of white sand. The only way to get to this bay is to stay at the hotel, have your own yacht to cruise up in OR if you are sneaky like us, talk to someone at the front desk and tell them you are looking for a hotel and wanted to look around the grounds. They instructed us to make ourselves at home and pointed us toward the elevator. The famous elevator! To the famous bay!

Totally dreamy.

Pulling ourselves away from the bay, we continued along the coast, passing exceedingly ugly industrial Manfredonia, which spit us off of the promontory and into Trani:

where we got in just in time to see the sun set over the harbor and cathedral from our hotel room at Hotel San Paolo al Convento, a former convent with limestone walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. Thanks for the tip, in-laws!

From Trani through Matera and the Valle d'Istria and on to the tip of the heel... next.

Oscar's Birthday Week

 

Psychedelic birthday cake. Designed and decorated by Oscar.

I am a bit fearful that a dangerous precedent has been set. One birthday. Three birthday parties. One week of sugar induced toddler debauchery and a wardrobe covered in frosting. The kid just turned three years old. Yes, it is every exciting, but judging by the amount of fanfare surrounding the big event, you would think he just married the princess of England.

First, there was the school party. A nutritious lunch was swapped out for a gooey chocolate birthday cake. Toddler approval ratings were high and the change in routine was greeted with rave reviews:

Of course we had to have a family party at home. We added a few friends and had Oscar's favorite meal- pesto pasta with chicken and kalamata olives. When people arrived he kept opening the fridge and asking for his "happy birthday." "When is my happy birthday?" I soon realized that he was referring to the dessert and the singing. Most of what he has grasped about birthdays is 'dessert on fire'. Not a bad start.

Wanting a contrast to the cake he ate a few hours ago at school, I combined a banana split and a sundae: homemade banana chocolate-chip ice cream, sprinkled with salted peanuts, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. Hmmm... a dreamy helping of childhood nostalgia. Diving into this salty, sweet, bitter chocolate, treat transported us all to our happy place.

 

But the real showstopper had to be the kid-tastic birthday fiesta. Because we are moving back to the US in two weeks, uprooting Oscar from everything he has ever known, we went all out-- Mexican-style. Kid birthday parties are a major event here. The phone book has pages and pages of listings for event spaces solely for kid parties. They are equipped with bounce houses, trampolines, a rig for the piñata, and play structures galore; some have stages for a Backyardigan or Toy Story performance. All provide lots of  tables and chairs and a large counter space for a extensive food buffet.

 Bounce house: Check.

Look at the way he steps into the swing. Clearly it is not his first piñata bashing.

Why the tables and chairs? Kids don't sit still long enough to eat at a party. And a buffet table? Don't you just need a table big enough to hold a cake and perhaps a tub of ice cream? That is all the kids are going to eat, right? In Mexico, when you invite a child to a birthday party, you are inviting the whole family-- sisters, brothers, parents, cousins, uncles, grandparents, the neighbor who is over playing that morning, etc. They all come. And they expect to be fed and watered. So, those fifteen invitations that went out to Oscar's classmates could bring in 150 guests. And the kicker..... no one ever RSVPs.

So from someone who foolishly tackled it..... if you are ever faced with the challenge of cooking for a large mystery number of adults and children, I suggest you don't. Just call in a taco truck, order the largest cake at the bakery and get your bounce-house on!

In my memory, growing up in the US, birthday parties lasted two hours MAX at this young age. Parents jumped for joy at the sight of a birthday invitation and quickly scheduled their massage, golf game, etc. Kids were dropped off not one second after the designated time. Now….Mexican-style. Two hours in and the party is just getting rolling. Entire families are still arriving. Naps are not an issue in Mexico and a sleep-deprived breakdown is treated with another slice of cake. Guests plant themselves at the tables and settle in for the afternoon. It’s an event. It truly is a celebration; a reason for everyone to get together. My guess is Oscar is going to want the entire town and their extended families at his fourth birthday—and, of course, a piñata!

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The Perils of Being Pregnant

Computer refusing to upload photos but imagine a big plate of raw oysters right here.

The daily temptations of the local specialties shops notwithstanding (from creamy unpasteurized French cheeses, various forms of raw meats from aged prosciutto, salami, tartars and sushi to anything from the deli counter basically), I now have to dodge children and raw vegetables. My rubella antibodies have gone from "weak" during my first pregnancy to below acceptable levels in this one. Apparently this happens. And so, what follows? Yes, a fellow mother from my children's kindergarten just informed me that there is at least one confirmed case of some sort of rubella, aptly also called German measles, currently circulating among the little miscreants. But children are not this pregnant woman's only nemisis: there has recently been an outbreak of something referred to as EHEC, a form of E. coli bacteria that is resistant to antibiotics and causes a series of unpleasant and potentially fatal intestinal and kidney malfunctions. They have just announced that a leading research institute in Germany has traced the source to raw vegetables - the one thing that pregnant women are told to ingest in large quantities. AND they have traced these vegetables back to... yes, of course, northern Germany.

While grocery shopping I feel like I am in a minefield: tomatoes about to go off all around me, who knows what's lurking under that lettuce leaf, and the potential pitfalls of choosing the wrong red pepper. ACK! What is a veggie lover to do? Cook them, the experts say. Peel them, boil them, fry them, sauteé them, bake them, just get them hot enough to kill whatever might be on them. But it's summmmmmmeeeeerrr. The season of flip-flops and cut-offs and tube tops and RAW vegetables, of hierloom tomato salads with (raw milk) buffala mozzorella, green goddess dressings made of thousands of fresh herbs, crudités and dips, cold soups made of simple pureed RAW vegetables. Raw, naked, in their natural state. Not baked in cheese and cream, not breaded and fried, not soaking in oil, just plain. Plain delicious.

In the course of my travels, I have had just about every amoeba, parasite and bacteria from giardia to bilharzia and taken every drug from cipro to hard core antibiotics. Of course this is because I've drank water from puddles full of cow shit in Mauritania, risked "Delhi-belly" by sampling the wares of numerous street food vendors throughout India, eaten fish from still water lakes in Afghanistan and kebobs from dodgy road side stands in Jordan; what I mean to say is, I deserved it. I have thrown major caution to the wind when it comes to taking triple-dog-food-dares. And I paid dearly for it. But this time, the game has changed. My intestinal track is weathered and can hack a little EHEC, I wager. But the fetus - I would like to give it a little more time to prepare before exposing it to all  of the intestinal evils of the world.

So yesterday as the woman scans my items at the check out counter  I am practically blushing. I will admit it: I am a bit of a grocery snob. I judge other people by their groceries. I imperceptibly shake my head at the mother who puts a pile of sugary yogurts, Chef-Boy-Ardee-like ready made pasta mixes and nothing-natural-about-them cookies on the conveyer belt; I feel sorry for the middle-aged man who lays out his mayonaisse-laden deli prepared "salads" and his frozen pizzas; I chuckle as I remember when I was one of those students stocking up on ramen noodles and cheep beer. Total snob, I know.

But as I stand here watching my groceries slide by, I realize I am a conglomeration of all of these people. It's painfully obvious that I've completely shunned the produce aisle, even though signs hang above the arugula, spinach and iceburg saying "E. Coli FREE"; instead, it looks like I am preparing for an impending storm - almost everything is either processed and packaged or pasteurized. Artificially flavored hazelnut cream filled cookies, sour cream and onion Philadelphia and my biggest weakness which I usually deny, those something of Hannover honey mustard pretzel bits. They always give me a stomach ache because I eat too many of them but they are crack-like addictive. Nutritional value of my purchase: negligible. E. Coli risk: 0. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.

Barceloneta: Behind the Scenes

As promised, more on Barceloneta. First, I won't say too much as you can read all about it in the upcoming June issue of Hemispheres Magazine, the United/Continental In-Flight magazine - either on board or online (yay!). But I will give you all a behind the scenes look at the prep for the piece:

In addition to all of the gorgeous dishes from my previous post, my research also entailed

the chef's smoked rice paella dish - unlike anything I'd tasted before.

And while Nathan and I tucked into all things from the sea, our fellow diners, Freej and Avis,

were giddy to find there was a vegetarian version.

But we were here for work not pleasure (although combining the two in this case was effortless) and so we finished off every last gambas rojas and smoky granule and headed to the open kitchen to stalk the man behind the mission (that being to bring diners to tears with his creations), a chef named Hug.  (I'm not kidding.)

Ah yes, fresh seafood with a view of the Mediterranean and sitting down to talk food with adorable chefs, life is hard. But sometimes you just have to soldier through, you know?

Nathan and Freej yawned as Eva and I fawned over this talented cook with stunning blue eyes,

who also, turns out, gives good backrubs. To the pregnant woman. And charms her friend whose boyfriend is standing off to the side rolling his eyes. Ay dios mio. Want some of the freshest, most innovative seafood in Barcelona and a Hug? - his lovely establishment is called Kaiku. Tell him I sent you. Ask for a backrub. Enjoy.

Barceloneta and its Cuina

I was in Barcelona a few weeks ago, in the lovely seaside, city beach, revamped fisherman's quarter of Barceloneta and it looked like this...

and sometimes it looked like this..

and occasionally like this.

More on Barcelona and its cuina coming to follow shortly...

Bacon Jam: Pig On A Baguette

I have a guilty secret. I have been keeping quiet for the past two months in fear that I would blurt it out without warning or proper fanfare; however, now I just feel like a greedy hoarder for not letting everyone in on it: Bacon Jam! For real! It exists!

Bacon jam might be the first good thing that has come out of peoples’ obsession with hourly web updates detailing what they are noshing on while sitting in front of their computer. I first stumbled upon these two beautiful words strung together on twitter, which lead to a deeper dive into a few blogs which had recipes for bacon jam, then… I turned to my stash of homemade bacon. A choir of angels sang out from the heavens and I knew how to fulfill this pork belly’s calling: Pork product in spreadable, edible form. Good God, man! Could it be as magical as it sounded?

Oh yes, it is pure nectar!

For my spin on it, I gave it a sort of Mayan-Mexican twist. Cocoa nibs (roasted cocoa beans) impart the essence of chocolate without adding any sweetness. The ancho and chipotle give it a bit of spice and smoky flavor, while the cinnamon adds subtle warmth. I used agave syrup (you can use honey as a substitute) which is a sweet syrup made from the cactus where tequila comes from… hmmmm maybe I should try a batch with a shot of tequila in the mix.

A smear of this smoky, spicy, bitter pork "pate" turns dignified guests into gluttons and beggars. After several bites and lots of moaning, an entrepreneur friend of mine immediately began conceiving of world condiment domination- move over ketchup, now bacon comes in a jar!

Pig On A Baguette

1 # bacon, cut into 1” pieces

1 onion, medium dice

4 cloves garlic, minced

3 tablespoon brown sugar

1 teaspoon ancho chili powder

1 teaspoon chipotle powder (or smoked paprika)

¼ teaspoon cinnamon

1 tablespoon cocoa nibs, ground

¾ cup coffee

¼ cup cider vinegar

¼ cup agave syrup (or honey)

1.       Dump bacon into a skillet and cook until fat is rendered and bacon is slightly crisp. Add the onion and sauté for about 3 minutes. Pour out half of the bacon fat. Add the garlic and cook for 1 min.

2.       Add the sugar, all of the spices and cocoa nibs and stir over heat for 1-2 minutes.

3.       Pour in coffee, vinegar and agave and simmer on low for about 3 hours. Add water during the cooking if the liquid gets too low.

4.       Transfer to a food processor and pulse until slightly smooth. I leave it a bit chunky with bacon bits. Serve with baguette and apple slices.

Eating Moscow: Traditional v. Innovative

If it weren't for the touch screen waiter's monitor, you could be standing in someone's living room in Moscow circa 1979.

A secret restaurant in a Russian housewife's living room? Or a Russian-home-cooking joint and just another quirky thematic restaurant in the vast Ginza Project empire?  It is hard to tell the difference upon entrance, after you've rung the door bell on at what looks like a standard Moscow apartment building.

Someone answered the door and we were ushered into the entryway where we were instructed to hang our coats before proceeding to the table. Decorated like an old-fashioned and slightly worn living room, it was cozy and familiar.

Meat jello...

The menu, although authentically Russian was nothing to write home about. It may have been my fault for ordering the meat jello – but I like a challenge and couldn’t pass this one up. The “herring in a fur coat” – a typical Russian herring salad in beets and mayo has also been filed away under things I am glad I tried but don’t necessarily need to eat again. It was fine. But it is not something I will find myself craving after a fast.

Herring in a fur coat

The borscht was good, the mushroom julienne was creamy and warming, the blini with salmon were also done well. As I said, it was all authentic and it was all good. It just wasn’t great. The real reason to go is the atmosphere which was cozy and novel and allowed us to pretend we were getting a home cooked meal – even though there was a group of native English speaking tourists or expats a few tables over.

Mari Vanna is owned and run by the Ginza Project – hear of them? They have over 20 different restaurants and cafés in Moscow and have recently branched out into everything from fitness to taxi service to design to flowers to - sky's the limit - or at least something called "Ginza Sky". And they aim for world domination. They have opened a Mari Vanna in New York City and have plans for other projects abroad, rumor has it. 

But out with the old and on with the new...

Ragout: The head chef of this trendy Moscow restaurant is Alexei Zimin, who is also the editor -in-chief of “Eda”, Russia’s only good food magazine according to the critics. The mag covers everything from up and coming Moscow chefs, recipes that range from traditional to innovative and finally, the kicker, the last section offers recipes for foods that can be made with common household appliances (Soup cooked in the coffee maker? Fish poached in the dishwasher? Chicken spatch-cocked between two irons, anyone?).

After stints with big magazine titles in fashion and travel, Zimin decided that if he was going to take the helm of a food magazine he needed a formal education in his subject. He signed up for classes at the Cordon Bleu in London and came back with real chef creds which propelled him from his editor’s office into the kitchen. He currently captains both ships – AH-MAZING.

Ragout was opened by Katya Drozdova, Muscovite restaurateur who also opened Khachapuri, the hip new Georgian establishment that we very unfortunately did not make it to. She is a 30 something mother who has, with these two standouts and other projects in the works, firmly established herself as one of the big names in the Moscow food scene.

dessert

While I tend to shun the hot and trendy in favor of the hole-in-the wall, taco truck, old men in the tea shop type establishments, this is Russian cuisine too I reasoned and so we joined the scensters at Ragout: me, Julie, her friend Ana, my friend Elena, a Russian food and travel journalist based in Italy and her friend Irina, a Moscow fashion designer. Hello lovely ladies! The scene was buzzing, the light coming down in soft spotlights from above, tables pressed close together in rows, the young and beautiful nibbling on seafood risotto or vegetable tempura, tuna tartar with avocado or cod served over white beans and chorizo. But the stand-out of the evening, and I am not a dessert person normally, was the bacon and egg ice cream with salted caramel and brioche. The ice cream tasted like bacon, the “egg” was little bits of apricot, the salted caramel was thick and luscious served on the side in a little pot and the brioche was like a deeply saturated French toast.

The evening was capped off with a visit to the members-only bar Petrovska (Irina was a member) – a soviet nostalgia bar where hipsters mingled with  middle-aged foggies – and us - not tragically hip, but not yet foggies. We danced to horrendously bad 70s music, drank vodka with a group of ladies who came of age in the 70s, and then were spontaneously absorbed into a high school reunion in the “kitchen” themed dining room (there were several rooms that were themed to look like a different part of a typical Soviet apartment.

The owners asked for donations and trolled flea markets to find old Soviet nostalgia from people’s homes which make the basis for the decoration. Soviet kitsch heaven.) We danced with a couple of very sweaty 50 year old men and swapped remember when stories even though we had no shared history (fake it till you make it!)

Whether you are young and hot or absolutely not, in search of babuschka's borscht or something you could just as well find in NYC, it's all typical Moscow.